This poem is a prose poem, which is made up of paragraphs rather than stanzas, and may not adhere to grammar rules found in regular prose. Hope you enjoy it!
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A creak of a floorboard, a growl under the bed. A flash of a shadow, a tap on the window. Was the closet door open before? You can’t remember.
It’s already here—it always has been, actually. It is born from the deepest, darkest abysses of our collective consciousness, and has existed for as long as we’ve had fears.
To call it the Boogeyman is not quite right, for it is no man at all. It can morph into whatever horrible abomination it pleases. Every time it appears, it’s a little different—like an unfathomable tangle of writhing tendrils—or endless rows of gnashing teeth that grind together like cogs in a murder machine—or stringy black hair draped over a face that’s stretched too thin—or a long, crooked nose covered in repulsive warts.
As children, we're told it's always just out of sight, waiting to pounce when we least expect it. We’re told that it’ll snatch us up if we don’t behave—and it works. But as we grow older, as our hair becomes grayer, we realize the truth—that the Boogeyman is a creation of our minds, an inner demon that never goes away, an unrelenting force that makes our own brain turn against us.
It does not just instill fear—it is fear. It is the horrible nightmare that makes you wish you’d never slept. It is the unshakeable dread when staring into the void. It is inside all of us, always—it always has been.
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